


Dark roots

by nuclearsafetydance



Category: Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: F/M, Pregnancy, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:30:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3646962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuclearsafetydance/pseuds/nuclearsafetydance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(written as a birthday present to my girlfriend)</p><p>It takes a certain kind of person to knock at her door in the dead of the night and expect to be welcomed nonetheless, Skaði muses as she watches the man sleeping next to her. He claims half of her bed with an ease that really should make her angry. It doesn't. It makes her proud that he would come to her when he's tired, trust her enough to have her watch over him when he is at his most vulnerable.</p><p>In which Skaði makes a deal with Loki to reclaim what is rightfully his. Or so it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark roots

_Loki vill buga legg þinn og hug,_  
_lítið því duga vopn og vörn._  
_Hlusti nú hver sem heyrir í mér:_  
_Hættuleg eru Loka börn._

("Narfi" - Skálmöld)

 

It takes a certain kind of person to knock at her door in the dead of the night and expect to be welcomed nonetheless, Skaði muses as she watches the man sleeping next to her. He claims half of her bed with an ease that really should make her angry. It doesn't. It makes her proud that he would come to her when he's tired, trust her enough to have her watch over him when he is at his most vulnerable.

She tangles her fingers in his thick, red hair, nails grazing over his scalp, and Loki hums contently.

“Loki?”

“Hm…”

He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes.

“Can you change?”

“Mmh.”

His form shifts easily, like a picture that is turned ever so slightly to suddenly reveal something completely different. Her fingers wander over his soft, wrinkled belly, searching for something, asking questions.

Loki’s body stiffens.

“Don’t.”

She pulls her hand away, but her eyes remain on his still form.

“You were a bit rounder around the middle the last time I saw you.”

“Is that so?”

His voice is cold and with a sharp tone to it that sounds like he doesn’t want her to mention it, but she knows him better than that.

“It is. I have to admit I expected you to turn up on my doorstep, both arms full of whatever you had managed to bring forth this time, and ask me for a place to rest. What happened?”

“Óðinn _happened_.”

She patiently waits for him to continue because she knows he will, and after a while, he does.

“I bore two sons”, he says, opening his eyes at last to absently stare at the ceiling without seeing it, “they were sweet and small, so small, hardly strong enough to breathe when they slipped from my body, their whimpers in the morning air, their faces painted in my blood.”

He is smiling now, as if he could see them right in front of him.

“Vindr and Gár was how I called them, their skin soft when I licked the blood from it, making them mine and mine alone. Their eyes as bright and clear as a winter’s day. And never had I seen anything more beautiful or deserving of my protection, exposed, helpless and alone.”

His face darkens.

“Oh, but then came Óðinn. Then came the father of all on the back of my own son in all his glory, all his…” he twists his tongue around the word, hissing and spitting, “ _wisdom_ and they were mine no more, bound and strapped to the horse’s back and then they were gone as though they had never been if not for the blood on my tongue and the void of my body.”

Skaði remains silent.

Not because she wants him to go on, she doesn't think she could stand to hear even another word of it. But because she doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know what to think.

“Surely there must have been a reason for him to...”

“Oh, sure”, Loki sneers, “for him, there is always a reason. And if it is only his word, so be it. No-one would dare question the Allfather.”

Now that he has changed his form, Skaði can suddenly see it all. The swollen skin around his eyes, the utter desperation that has carved itself into his face. His hair, once as thick and black as a bear's winter coat, now falls onto his shoulders in loose strands, withered and grey. She has spent years with him, seen him laugh, cry, dance, writhe under the touch of her fingers, lost in thoughts over a poem, furious after leaving Þor's hall late at night with a fresh bruise on his temple. But never in her life has she seen him like this. Never this close to giving up.

“I want them back”, he whispers after a while, “I want my children. They may try to keep them from me, lock them away behind fences and walls, fires and dogs, behind the throne of Allfather himself. But I will come. And I will not stop before I can hold them again.”

Their eyes meet and Skaði feels like he is giving her a glance into his soul that goes deeper than anything she has seen before. Inside him, a fire is burning, fuelled by righteous anger, by a love that is enough to paint the whole world in his colours.

“I am coming with you”, she hears herself saying.

Loki smiles. “I know.”

-

It is still early when they set out on their quest to defy the laws of nature, to slip by the watchful eye of Heimdall and Óðinn and bring back Vindr and Gár Lokason.

Still, Skaði knows it's the chill of the morning air that is making her shiver, not the boldness of their task, for it is Loki walking next to her and his magic surrounding them, shielding them from the eyes and ears of those who stand guard through the night. He moves through the shadows, taking paths she has never even known to be there. Soon, she has no sense of direction anymore, following him blindly over the mountains and into the valley beyond.

When he finally comes to a halt, she is so lost in the drag of their endless wandering that she only narrowly avoids running into him. He doesn't seem to notice, cowering in the shade and fixing his gaze on the houses below instead. They look small from up here, huddling around a large hall like chicks seeking shelter with a hen.

“This is where they are being held?” Loki flinches at her words as if he has forgotten she is standing next to him.

“Yes. We need to find a way inside. I know this house, and I will find them by their scent. To get to them, however...”

He weights his next words carefully, still eyeing the hall.

“I need a distraction. Something to draw the guards away from their posts, or at least to make them look the other way while I slip past.”

He turns around.

“Will you do that for me?”

There is the slightest tremor to his voice, as if he expects her to refuse. As if he really expects her to say no and turn her back after they have come this far, after all these years. She places a hand on his shoulder, feels the muscles pulled tight like bow-strings, and he understands. She is as ready to leap as he is. Together, they climb down the rest of the way, the early morning's fog rolling off their fingers in glistening droplets. In the outskirts of the small village, Loki signals her, slipping away into the shadows. She feels his magic follow him and leave her, pulled from her like a warm blanket, and resists the urge to turn around. She knows she wouldn't be able so see him. Instead, she presses forward, eager to bring as much distance between them as possible. On the way into the valley, he has laid out the path he intends to take. She'll make sure to stay clear of it in putting up her distractions. More than one is needed here, she has decided, to keep the guards' attention long enough for him to enter the hall and escape, unseen, with the children.

So she circles the huts, leaving behind bits and pieces of her own magic wherever she goes, little frost-flowers on the outer walls and icicles under the roofs, catching the first rays of sunlight like knife's blades. The air chills around her, sinking to the ground and creeping over the low thresholds. Soon, she hears the whispers of the people behind the doors, urging each other to add another log to the fire, complaining about their aching feet.

She walks on, closer to the hall now. Still, there is no-one to be seen, and for a moment, she feels tempted to abandon her path and sneak past the remaining houses to see where the guards are, whether they have already caught on to her schemes. But the risk is too high. She needs to draw them away from the hall, needs them to follow her carefully crafted trail of breadcrumbs.

She stops by an oak tree, listening. It is dead silent. Perfect.

One hand stretched out in front of her, she lets another icicle grow from the dampness of the morning dew, from the water running beneath the bark. It is small at first, hardly larger than her thumb. But under her watchful eye it grows fast, building up layer after layer, not so much stretching as fattening, until it resembles a giant hornets' nest, swaying dangerously under its branch. She takes a step backwards, casting a quick glance over her shoulder.

Then, she releases her hold on the nest.

With a clash it bursts on the hardened earth, sending ice splinters flying in every direction. Skaði is already running when she hears the warning calls echoing through the morning air, the doors slamming open, the shuffling of feet. Now they have discovered the trail of ice around their village, their voices becoming louder, angrier, but they move in the opposite direction, away from her. She wants to laugh at her plan unravelling so beautifully, at the image of Loki's face when she tells him about it, later, when they're back at her home. For now, she needs a place to hide, and as she slows her steps, checking twice before she rounds each corner, it becomes increasingly clear that it will have to be outside the village. Here, the space between the houses is too open, leaving her in plain view of even the most careless onlooker. There are no rocks to cower behind, no undergrowth to obstruct the guards' line of sight. She needs to find somewhere that will allow her to keep an eye on the events in the village while remaining unseen herself. Maybe a spot in a nearby tree will do, if it is high enough to not be considered at first glance, or she will have to return to the mountains.

Later, Skaði would say she didn't remember how it happened. How she could have been so careless, so lost in thought over an imaginary hiding place, a potential getaway and a happy reunion, that she didn't hear the scraping of armour right next to her until it was far too late, until a heavy hand already lowered itself on her arm, trapping her in its grip.

“You're coming with us.“

And she knows it's useless to resist.

They march her back to where she started her ill-fated escape, then turn towards the hall. Up close, it looks so much bigger than when she first saw it from their resting place on the mountainside. The guards by the door stand motionless and silent as their companions bring her inside, and Skaði has to stop herself from throwing a glance over her shoulder to check if they are not actually statues, blind and dumb until the end of days.

Inside, the fires burn with harsh cracks that make her skin crawl, and the air smells of ash. The guards lead her to the very centre of the room, where the stench is so strong it makes her eyes water. And there is something else to it, sickness, age-old and foul, riding under its guise like a thief in the dead of the night.

A man sits in the chair next to the fireplace like it is a throne, leaning heavily on the staff in his hand.

“Bring her to me!“

It is only then that Skaði glances at his face, and she regrets it almost immediately. His lone eye bores into hers, leaving her bare and unprotected. Her bones resonate with the finality of his tone.

“Skaði Þjassadóttir.”

“Allfather.”

The fire cracks again, but there is a noise Skaði can't really place this time. A slight humming, almost a tune, or it would have been if it hadn't been interrupted at random intervals.

She doesn't dare to avert her eyes to look for its source.

Óðinn tightens his grip around the staff.

“You know why you are here.”

It is not a question. Yet she has to think about it for a moment, to remind herself that it was a just cause that sent her here, a quest to reclaim what was wrongfully taken.

“I do. I am, however, not sure if the same is true for everyone in this room.”

He inclines his head, indicating for her to go on. This, she will later think, is what should've made her suspicious. There was something she didn't know, and it presented him with the opportunity to mock her, to show her just how far she was from the truth she claimed to possess. To watch her stagger through the dark, grasping at ghost lights. Maybe it would have made him feel ashamed to know how close this brought him to the man he pretended to be fighting. Maybe he knew, and just didn't care. Skaði will think about this much later, curled up in her home, licking her wounds.

In this moment, however, there is no trace of these thoughts. She plants both feet firmly into the ground, like the roots of her willing accomplice in her distraction, and raises her voice.

“I came here to set wrong things right, and did so at the request of Loki Laufeyjarson, who asked for my support in bringing back his children from where you had unjustly imprisoned them. It seems to me, Allfather, that it is beyond even your power to take newborns from their mother, to abduct children incapable of doing harm , deserving only of our protection and...”

She falls silent when she sees the half-formed smile on his face, sharp and merciless.

„And that is what you believed?”, he asks, his voice dangerously low.

“What you honestly believed?“

She doesn't answer, doesn't need to, because now he tightens his other hand around a chain she hasn't even noticed being there, a thick, oily thing that seems to twist and wind in the fire's glow, and pulls hard, and a figure appears from the shadows around his throne. The humming noise stops for good, and Skaði stares into the face of the man she followed into this valley like a lamb to slaughter. He cowers at Óðinns feet, his dark hair obscuring most of his features. His eyes, however, shine in the dim light like a rabid animal's, turned so far they're almost completely white.

“Is it not true what she told us, Loki?“, Óðinn bellows, yanks the chain upwards to force him onto his knees. Skaði feels the urge to jump forward, to wrestle it from his grip.

„Is that not what you told her?“ Loki doesn't seem to notice him, his gaze fixed on her face instead.

“Fársótt“, he whispers, „Vitleysi, my children, my beautiful children. I cannot thank you enough. They are free, they are free. Finally, they are free.“

He is shaking now, his whole body shivering helplessly under the force of the laughter trying to claw itself out of his throat.

Skaði takes a single look at his eyes, once again seeing deeper than she has ever before, into a love prepared to swallow the universe whole, and she understands.

And so it is that aeons later, in a cave at the end of the world, Skaði fastens the snake to the rock above his head. Waits for the first drop to fall, watches Sigyn rush to his side when it does. Loki lies at her feet, his skin red where the blood of his sons is dripping from the chains, his face pale and motionless.

She kneels down next to him, leaning in closely until her lips are mere inches from his ear.

“This is what you deserve. This and nothing else.“

His head turns, and she expects anything. Anything but the smile that fills his face and tears at his mouth, making his lips crack and splinter like ice under the careless traveller's foot.

„I know.“

**Author's Note:**

> some help with old norse: vindr means 'wind' and gár 'joke' or 'jest', while fársótt and vitleysi mean 'plague' and 'insanity', respectively.


End file.
